Ramesh Bikal
Whenever I pass along the way, on a side of the road, I see a tree standing in an enormous shape. I have a childhood memory of an incident associated with the tree—a sorrowful one.
The tree has already become old. It has gradually lost its thick branches that would always be covered with foliage. The tree now looks like an old man, whom time has transfigured.
When I see this old tree, that pathetic moment comes in front of my eyes. The main part of the incident is that, a dead body of a young man was hanging on branch. He was hanged, and that had such immortal history, which cannot be forgotten.
At that time, we were children. In the month of February, we used to take bath early in the morning in holy river Bagmati. We would chant: ‘Madhav-Narayan’. That day was also in the month of February, so in the morning we went to the Bagmati and came past Guhyeswori and Pashupati, chanting ‘Madhav-Narayan’. When we came there, we felt that something amiss had taken place.
“A man is hanging from a tree,” we heard someone say. It created a sense of terror in us and an urge to see the dead body.
“Let’s go and watch,” Badri said in a calm voice. He was not frightened by the news but was afraid of our group leader Shyam, who was the eldest among us.
“No, it is not good to go to such a place,” Ishwor said.
“Why?” said Kawa Bhaicha.
Then only Shyam said to us, “Young children and those who are afraid of dead body, go home.” Shyam also insisted that I go home, too. But I denied and followed them because I had such a keen desire to see the hanging body.
We all stood at least two hundred yards away from that place, because we were not allowed to go near. From such a distance, also my eyes caught the picture, which was quite pathetic. Every line, every point is still fresh in my mind, which was not unclear from such a long period of time. And I also think that I would not forget his face till my deathbed.
The place we stood at was two hundred yard far from the tree. The branch was like a devotee with a hand blessing. Around seventeen-year-old boy was hanging. The body was only a body without soul in it. But his body parts could reveal that he was well-behaved. It could be easily guessed that his eyes were transparent. His hair was blowing.
That scene created a negative picture on me and questions began to rise that, “Who was he? What mistake did he make?” But I didn’t dare to ask these questions to Shyam. It was hard to repress my desire and asked the same question to Madhav, ‘Why Madhav?… Why it was done to him? What he did?”
However, Madhav was also unknown and answered that he would ask to his father.
We returned. On the way, I wondered only about him, his body, and face. “Why was he hanged? Why no one had sympathy on him? What mistake did he make?” I suffered from different types of pain. I reached home and Mother was waiting for food. The question only about him was wondering on mind. My mother was able to read my face and asked me what had happened.
I stared at her face continuously and after sometime I asked her question, “Mother, why was that boy hanged?” Her face changed. The sense of terror could be seen on her face.
“Why are you thinking about that nonsense at the time of dinner?” Mother asked me in a rude way. Her rudeness had not much power to make me silent. But I would feel a sense of love in her rudeness. But it grew a new persistence. “In that tree of Bakaina near of Tukucha, boy had been hanged; why was he hanged? What was the mistake?” I asked to mother. He seems good and intelligent.
She did not respond to my question but ordered me to read and write. I had no any objection toward her because I know that she was unknown about the incident. Then I thought I would ask my father and wait for him.
Coincidentally father did not come at that day. He had some work on Jarsaheb, so he had to live there. My father’s duty was on kitchen. After a long period of time, twenty five year of serving, Jarsaheb was too much happy with my father. So that wherever Jarsaheb went, father was with him. Sometime mother says that, when Jarsaheb took food, he must necessarily be there.
Sometime father had to live in the Palace. Maybe on that day too, he didn’t get the chance to come. I was not able to sleep whole night thinking about him, the boy. At the morning time when I was sleeping I dreamed about the boy. He was the relative. His name was Biplab. We had good relation. We were playing on such a thick jungle. When we were playing a great monster came and swallowed him. And when my eyes open, I was full of sweat, and the heart was beating too fast. I was too afraid of darkness and then I slept with my mother.
Mother asked, “What happened; why are you shivering?” I pronounced only a word “Biplab”.
Mother said, “Again the same argument, being children no more discussion about him. Don’t think about it and just sleep,” on a threatening way. She kept me near her as if she could face all obstacles and help him. The sun had risen but father did not arrive. I was in eager, when father would come and asked him about the whole incident, dream, and the monster.
Now the waiting was over. Father arrived. But I didn’t dare to ask him about Biplab. Father finished his daily work and went to kitchen. Then only after some time, I asked “Father, why was Biplab hanged on Bakaina tree?” I did not know his real name but I could not forget the incident, so unconsciously, I gave him name which I had dreamed. Father became confused of My question.
“What?” Father said looking at mother’s face. He had such a habit, that he did not talk openly. If he had to talk with us, he used to ask the question to mother. So we didn’t dare to ask question directly. But that day, some other motif encouraged me to ask.
“Yesterday after returning from Guhyeswari, he is wondering all the time.” Mother said. I was too much afraid to ask the question again. Father stared at me but again I asked the question, “why the boy was hanged on tree?”
“Which tree?” Father asked me rudely. I could read his face from his expression.
Father said, “Shut up! (In a loud voice) It is not good to talk about such nonsense being children. Go to study, later serve to Jarsaheb, you can get prestige and salary. Why are you concentrating in this matter?”
But the question was still on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring it to my lips. When I was about to ask I remembered his face, when he was scolding at me. Mother was willing to know about that so she asked Father.
Father said, “It’s none of your concerns. Better shut up your mouth.” Mother became speechless. Still I had a desire to know about him. I was not able forget his face.
Again, I said, “Why Biplab was killed?”
Father said, “Biplab? That rascal? How you know his name?”
I answered that I had dreamed. Again I asked, “Father he was a good and intelligent also, what was his fault?”
Father said, “Face did not matter, it depends on character. He was a babbler, other obeyed the Jarsaheb’s order but he did not. He was threatened but he said, “You can do anything, use any power” to Jarsaheb. Jarsaheb wanted to forgive him but he was such an extremist. He stacked the pamphlets against the Palace on walls at night, scoundrel!”
I did not understand all things that Father had said. But Biplab, who seems to be innocent, “How could he commit such crime to be hanged?” I was not satisfied but I did not dare to ask the question again.
Father said, “He did crime otherwise why Jarsaheb would kill him? Jarsaheb wanted to forgive him, but it was worthless to debate with Jarsaheb.”
“He should have felt guilty and confessed his crime. Why did he have to argue with Jarsaheb, Father?” I said. I was forced to accept what father had said.
From that time, I did not ask him any question. I just concentrated my whole mind on study. I served Jaraheb, became happy with me, and gave me a job too. After the establishment of democracy, too Jarsaheb’s blessing was with me. I had such an ability to make them happy and this ability came from my father.
Still when I go and return from office, unintentionally my eyes go on that old tree. A pathetic incident, forty years ago; I feel it still exists. His innocent face, his body on the branch of tree comes in my eyes. I have not any courage to look. I feel that boy, my friend is laughing at me and my position, my ability to make Jarsaheb happy and my job. “Did he commit a crime?” Sometime I laugh at myself. I feel that someone scratched my wound, which could never be healed.
Translated by Prabhab Bhattarai
Ramesh Bikal (1932-2008) is a reputed storywriter and novelist. Born and brought up in Kathmandu, his fiction deal with social justice and class-consciousness. He won Madan Puraskar, the post literary prize in Nepal for his story collection Naya Sadakko Geet in 1962. His other published story collections include Birano Deshma, Budha Violin Ashabariko Dhunma, Aaja Pheri Tanna Pherinchhaa, etc. His novel Abiral Bagdachha Indrawati is a work of international repute. He also wrote several works for children.